


Darksome Round

by TeaCub90



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Horror, Mentions of Violence, Prompt: Lost in a maze
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 13:16:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21162269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaCub90/pseuds/TeaCub90
Summary: Scared by a maze, he thinks, ruefully, as he stumbles along. If only Jakes could see him now.





	Darksome Round

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Spooktober Challenge #24: Lost in a corn maze. I was supremely cheeky and took out the 'corn' bit; just an ordinary maze for the Oxford boys. 
> 
> Warning for murder, some violence and scary bits 'n bobs. Written in a single afternoon, so all mistakes are mine. Title and poetry quotations are taken from Alexander Pope's Eloisa to Abelard.

* * *

He’s lost.

That much becomes clear about five minutes in, when he turns this way and that way and then this way again, feeling like a child caught in a hall of mirrors, alone with a hundred different versions of themselves (thinks of Joss Bixby, fleeting, the life he led at the fairground before reality seeped in and over like blood – no, don’t think about that). His hands trail across the bushes and then _ow_ – a sleeve caught, a sudden nick against his skin that he stops to inspect; a thorn in his palm.

_Roses_. Of course.

It’s dark; his only companions are the bushes looming high either side, higher still than another maze he once ran into on a summer’s day with the half-thought that he might not come out whole. Even on a hot day, the reality of that fact had settled around his shoulders like a chilly cloak.

Now, it’s a night in late autumn, even colder, even blacker, and he’s completely alone.

‘Sir?’ Morse tries, a half-shout, half-whisper. Swallows; unsure how far away he is from the centre of the maze where a dead body lies. ‘Sir?’ Shuffles along a little; thinks he hears a ruffle of roses nearby, turns in time to see a nearby hedge shaking as the wind picks up.

They don’t know – none of them know – if the killer is even still in the maze.

Holding his breath, stumbling away backwards, Morse ducks into the relative safety of another corner, finds himself staring down a long corridor of hedges. Does this mean he’s near the outside of the maze? Can he get away with making a hole, punching his way through to the outside? Surely, it’s exonerating circumstances; the owners will most likely understand, at least the ones still standing, the ones still being stalked by some sort of Punch-and-Judy obsessive who delights in tormenting his victims with gleeful phonecalls and taunting notes before he even strikes?

And yet, what if the killer is hovering just outside the maze, hanging around to see his handiwork? What if Morse makes his way out only to find himself facing down the barrel of a shotgun, the same one that killed Adrian Lakeman, lying dead somewhere in the centre?

He hesitates; hovers, wanders down step by step, unsure of what could be waiting for him at the other end. Reaches the end, reaches around and –

Nothing.

Clearing his throat, the sound unexpectedly loud in the silence, he wanders – Alexander Pope rattling through his head, _relentless walls whose darksome round contains, _and how could anyone ever aspire to wanting one of these things on their land _– _finds himself facing an inner mix of hedges, dangling the possibility of two different directions. Making his way back to the middle of the maze seems to be the thing and he choose the one on the left, keeping his eyes on the various white roses he sees as some poor semblance of light, popping out here and there as silent, almost unsettling markers, watching his progress, or lack of it, with perfect silence.

A crackling reaches his ears – he stops. Listens. Another, like a twig breaking. Like the first crackle of wood before a fire.

‘Hello?’ he asks; glances upwards at the sky, breath shuddering out in a cold fog. Light pollution makes it hard to see the stars tonight, even on a chilly evening as this one.

Another rustle alerts him; turning, he sees a single flower, a white rose protruding from its bush, shaking with the surrounding greenery like a puppet swinging to and fro with a laughing kind of swish.

‘Who’s there?’ he manages; the shaking stops, promptly.

He runs. Turns on his heel and runs; his own breath in his ears, his footsteps echoing like the chase of someone right on his heels and he glances around, once or twice, shoulders brushing the side of the bush, sure he can see someone on his tail – but it’s just him, it’s just him and his own breath, his own, quiet, panting panic, are enough to give him away.

‘Morse!’

He turns towards the sound, the sound of Thursday, echoing but faint; debates silently; takes a breath, finds his voice. ‘I’m here!’

Listening, his heart thudding right into his ears, threatening to burst his head open, he strains to hear. And then, finally, thankfully:

‘Morse?’ Thursday’s voice is like a beacon, the firmness of some far-off security.

‘I’m here,’ he calls again; emboldened by the sounds, he starts making his way around, away from wherever it is that rustled the hedges; worrying that single, white rose like a peace flag with ill intent.

Scared by a maze, he thinks, ruefully, as he stumbles along. If only Jakes could see him now.

He moves and he falters and then he goes to the left and to the right, pitched back into silence. ‘Sir?’ he tries; no reply. Again; louder. ‘Sir!’

No response; slightly panicked, might have wandered away rather than closer to and he falls against bushes as he crosses corners, turns, turns, keeps turning, _where –_

‘Morse!’

He jumps a mile – Thursday appears in front of him, a worried, welcome sight in his coat and hat and he sags, grabs onto the arms that reach for him before he can stop himself, breathes out.

‘Alright, lad,’ Thursday assures, as he gasps, both hands steady on his shoulders. ‘Alright, breathe out, it’s alright. Come on. This way,’ he gestures with his head; Morse allows himself to be tugged along with relief and they emerge into the square of the maze, where Max sits inspecting the body of the unfortunate Adrian Lakeman. 

‘There was some movement,’ Morse reports hoarsely; Max glances up, attention diverted, eyes wide behind his glasses. ‘Around the edge of the maze, I…’

‘Whereabouts?’ Thursday asks; Morse grimaces, glancing back at the entrance to the centre from where they’ve just come and the haze of hedges beyond.

‘I think – perhaps that way?’ he gestures vaguely, ‘about north-west, maybe?’

‘Alright,’ Thursday murmurs softly. ‘Alright, lad, you’re safe now. We’ve got officers patrolling the area, don’t worry. Gave all of us a fright, you disappearing off like that,’ he adds, softly chiding. Morse breathes out, aware of the tremble of his own breath, the chilly fog.

‘Where’s Strange?’ he asks, glancing around.

‘Gone to help the stretcher-bearers get through,’ Thursday says with a significant glance at the hedges. ‘Look, you stay here with the doctor, and I’ll go and keep an eye out, alright?’ His tone indicates that Morse doesn’t have much of a choice.

‘Don’t,’ Morse shakes his head as he turns to go; gets met by a warm, weighty stare. ‘Sir, don’t – don’t disappear.’

‘Like _you_ did?’ Thursday asks dryly; Morse drops his gaze, suitably chided. ‘I’ll be nearby.’

Morse nods; watches him disappear around the corner, tries to console himself with the knowledge that his governor is only a hedge or two away. He wanders about Hansel and Gretel, alone in the woods, taking refuge in what they mistakenly thought was the sound of their father’s axe – shakes himself out of the thought, although he’s unable to shake himself out of the lingering unease he feels.

Just a consequence of wandering around the maze, he tells himself. They have a bit of a bad history with the things, after all. At least this one doesn’t contain a tiger; he should be thankful for that, at least.

He turns to smile at Max, glad of the company even if it comes with a dead body in tow; Max in turn is watching him, notebook clutched in his hand.

‘Do you feel alright?’ he asks, standing abruptly from where he’s kneeling beside the head; Morse nods, hovering closer than perhaps is strictly necessary, digging his hands into his pockets not at some poor attempt at bravado, but just to hide how much they’re shaking.

‘I’m fine,’ he replies; Max doesn’t look convinced, glancing past him at the entrance.

‘Bit frightening?’ he asks, with a raised eyebrow and Morse chuckles, a cold, breathless thing, promptly pulling a hand back out to tug at his ear.

‘Something like that. I’m okay, though,’ he assures and Max nods slowly, looking him up and down before glancing at the surrounding bushes with something suspiciously close to concern. And because he needs a distraction and they are, after all, in here for a reason, Morse nods at the corpse, very aware that they’re both alone with it in the middle of the maze. Thank God for Max, who spends his life working in a room surrounded by dead bodies, which he never wants to think on for too long but at least one of the two of them is brave enough to do it.

‘Starburst pattern,’ Max confirms, leading him back over to the body. ‘Shot point-blank, although…’ he gestures to the expression on the dead man’s face, wide-eyed and terrified, ‘something certainly startled him, just before he died. And there’s this.’

He gestures down to the man’s left side and for the first time, Morse sees it – a small Punch figure, much like a souvenir, hanging obscenely out of the dead man’s jacket pocket, grinning up at them, almost leering. It’s a disconcerting sight.

‘Souvenir,’ Morse comments, his own voice like a shadow. ‘That’ll have to be bagged up.’ Max nods, something in his expression matching Morse’s tone.

‘Yes, indeed. You said it was something to do with puppets, is that right?’

Morse nods, feels a slight shiver, more exposed to the wind here in the openness of the maze, hoping the stretcher-bearers arrive soon. ‘Some sort of…old feud, I believe. We’ll have to talk to his wife,’ he nods down at the poor unfortunate victim, crossing his arms tight around himself. ‘Make sure she’s protected. There were phone-calls, up at the house,’ he gestures vaguely in the direction that said house might be in. ‘A high voice on the line, she described it. Thought it was just someone messing about and then…’ _And then people started dying._

‘Hm.’ Max bites his lip, following his gaze before glancing about. _‘In these deep solitudes and awful cells where heavn’ly-pensive contemplation dwells,_’ he notes dryly; Morse nods, grimacing. ‘To each their own and I understand the need for a bit of a horticultural challenge, but…’ he says it in a single bite of what could only be labelled as green-fingered disparagement and Morse chuckles, the vision of Max’s own simpler, beautiful spot a welcome relief compared to this garishness.

The silence is suddenly, abruptly disturbed by three rapid gunshots, breaking close above their heads like fireworks; Morse grabs Max; pulls him down to the floor even as the sound is accompanied by a high, squeaking cackle – the kind that makes Morse think of beaches and red and blue stripes, empty, painted eyes, the laughter of an oblivious audience; a bat in hand to do some very real, very dangerous mischief.

_‘I’m coming to get’choo!’_ the voice is gleeful and squealing, and close; the bushes rustle, violent.

_He’s still here. _Morse breathes, feels Max do the same, his hand on his arm, glances behind him at the dead man that’s their only other company, along with the sudden sound of approaching footsteps. Even in the dark, the eyes of the Punch doll twinkle up at them, clear and cold.

_‘Mooooorse! **I’m coming** **to get you!’**_

*


End file.
